Smoketree

by Jennifer Roberson

  Smoke hung in a gauzy cloud; I squinted through it to make out the other occupants. And then my mouth fell open.

  John Oliver sat at a formica-topped cafeteria table, perching on one of the round plastic stools, tapping his fingers on the smooth table surface. Heavy brows drew downward as he watched me. A cigar lay at hand, trailing malodorous smoke into the air.

  But it was Brandon who stood up. Brandon who rose as I was pushed into the sphere of light. “Kelly,” he said. “Oh Kelly…”

  Briefly, I thought they had caught him too. And then I thought no, of course not; Brandon is with them. And he was.

  “I found her outside with a horse.” The man who held my arm spoke in a measured cadence that was surely foreign, though I could not place the accent.

  There was a second stranger in the room. He sat on top of one of the nearest tables, his feet propped on one of the stools. He smiled.

  “Kelly,” Brandon said again, “what are you doing here?”

  The gunman still held my wrist. The hand attached to it was cold, numb. So was the rest of me. I could only stare at Brandon.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I swear I never meant for this to happen.”

  “Brandon.” His name was dust in my mouth. “Brandon—what’s happening?”

  The second man continued to smile. He was very dark, with an aristocratic bone structure—he was attractive in a vital sort of way, but his smile was eerie. My flesh crawled over my bones.

  “Rashid,” the dark man said. “Be gentle. She is a lady.”

  “Do I care?” Rashid retorted. “She is here.”

  “Leave her alone, Frenchie,” Brandon said sharply to the man sitting on the table. “I’ll be responsible for her.”

  Frenchie. A Frenchman? No. He did not have the accent for it.

  “Brandon, what are you doing?” I asked with as much calm as I could muster. “You and John Oliver—tell me what I’m supposed to think.”

  “But would you believe it?” asked the man called Frenchie. “I think not. So what use is an explanation?”

  The gunman—Rashid—pushed me forward and shoved me down the line of tables toward John Oliver. A pressure on my shoulder told me to sit; I did so with alacrity. I doubted I could stand a moment longer.

  Carefully I set both hands on the table, spreading my fingers. I stared at them a moment, then finally looked at Brandon, “Is it the land? Is it Smoketree you’re after?” I swallowed painfully, “Is that what’s been going on?”

  John Oliver drew on his cigar, observing me with cold eyes as he blew out the smoke. It coiled upward, wreathing itself around the lantern light. He said nothing. But he smiled, and I knew, somehow, there was more to all this than land. There had to be. But whatever it was, I didn’t want to die over it.

  “Land?” Frenchie mocked. “No, I think not. Not this land, at any rate. Not even within this country.”

  “Enough,” Brandon said. “I’ll answer for her, but only if she doesn’t know anything.”

  “But she already does,” Oliver commented. “She’s here, Brandon. What else is there to do?”

  “Let me walk out of here,” I said. “Just let me go. I won’t say anything to anyone.”

  “And would you give us your word?” Frenchie asked.

  My mouth was dry. I knew there was no sense in it. Not even in begging. They already knew what they would do.

  My belly churned. I was sick and clamped my jaws against the urge to lose the contents of my stomach.

  “I’ll give you anything you want,” I said faintly. “Just let me go.”

  Brandon shifted restlessly on his stool. “Kelly, don’t bargain with them. You don’t have anything they can’t take anyway. ”

  “Bargain with them," I said sharply. “What about you? Can I bargain with you?”

  “I think not,” said Frenchie. “He is as committed to this as we are, if for different reasons. And I’m quite sure he recognizes the risk you constitute.” He smiled again, and this time it had an edge to it. “Just as he did when he killed the man and set the horse loose. Clever, no?”

  My knees wobbled as I stood up in shock. “Brandon! You killed Drew—?”

  Rashid’s hand came down on my shoulder. He thumbed a pressure point that shot pain and numbness throughout my body; I dropped down at once. John Oliver’s smoke was a veil before my face, filling my nose and eyes. I wanted to cry; I wanted to scream; I wanted to strike out at them all. But I did nothing, because I could not.

  “You’ll kill me,” I said raggedly.

  Oliver sighed. “It’s your own fault—you shouldn’t have come up here. Blame yourself.”

  Blame myself. I nearly laughed. But I was afraid it would turn into hysteria, so I clamped down on the impulse. I retreated into silence.

  “I had to kill him.” It was Brandon, explaining, as if he thought I could understand. “What else could I do? We were in the middle of a meeting. Stanford came to my door and knocked—he said he was hunting you. Hell, we couldn’t be certain what he’d heard. He saw Rashid and Frenchie. So we had to do something. I hit him. Later, when it was dark, I carried him down to the horse’s pen and cut the animal loose.” He shrugged. “It had to be done. What choice did I have?” My hands were sweaty in my lap. They felt too heavy, too cold, attached to someone other than myself. “For the land?” My words came out slurred, as if I were half-drunk. Or very, very frightened. “At least tell me what I’m here for.”

  Oliver began to grind out his cigar. Neither Rashid nor his companion said a word.

  Brandon moved slightly. His eyes did not avoid mine. “Not land,” he said. “Oh yes, we’re behind all the incidents, but all that was just a smokescreen. What we’re really here for is to strike a deal.” He shrugged. “Weapons. Why else would John and I be dealing with Arabs?”

  I twitched. “Arabs?” I said blankly. “Good God, Brandon—what for? What are you doing?”

  “Selling weapons to them,” he said, smiling. “You might call it an exercise in free enterprise.”

  I stared at him. “Are you crazy? What for?”

  “Money,” he said succinctly.

  “You’re heir to Walkerton Industries!” I snapped, suddenly angry. “What do you need with money?”

  “I need more of it,” he said, no longer smiling. “I’m on a fixed allowance. My father tied everything up several years ago, when it became clear I was not going to become the sort of company man he wanted. Me, for Christ’s sake, on a fixed income!” A white line framed his mouth. “I won’t stand for it. So I’m doing something about it.”

  “Your lifestyle doesn’t appear to be particularly spartan,” I said clearly.

  His mouth was a grim line. “Oh, it’s a generous allowance. But not what I need. So John and I worked out an arrangement whereby he hides the missing arms in the computer inventory at his plant, then stockpiles them elsewhere. We sell them to the highest bidder.” He relaxed a little. “It’s strictly business, Kelly. I’m not motivated by God, glory or the American flag. Politics bore the hell out of me. And it might just as well have been an Israeli faction who bought these arms.”

  “And you used Smoketree as a red herring.” My voice felt rusty in my throat. “It was you behind everything. The threats. You had Harper’s horses killed, the barn burned, you’ve even undermined Nathan’s health.” I looked at him. “Did you know that? He’s probably on his way to the hospital because of you.”

  “Drew Stanford’s dead,” Brandon said calmly. “I’d say Reynolds is lucky.”

  “Don’t you care?” I asked. “They’re going to kill me, Brandon.”

  Rashid’s hand was clasping my arm again. “It is time we left.”

  He pulled me to my feet. “Brandon!” I cried, trying to break through to his conscience. “Are you just going to let them take me?”

  Oliver stood, gesturing imperatively. “Get her out of here! I want nothing to do with this. I wanted a plain business deal, no violence. Get her out of here. I do
n’t want to be connected.”

  I opened my mouth to shout at him but Rashid jerked me around and shoved me down the steps. My choice was to walk down them or fall down them. I walked.

  It was cold outside. I shook steadily now, but it was from more than just the temperature. I was scared to death.

  Rashid, still holding my arm, pushed me toward two parked cars in the lot beside the lodge. I stumbled, slipping in a patch of snow, and felt my stomach roll with nausea.

  The door closed behind us, banging noisily. Footsteps followed. Snow and gravel crunched beneath my feet; a shrill whinny pierced the air and I thought instantly of Preacher, poor maligned Preacher, who had killed no one at all and now was left to wander in the forest.

  Quick pain flashed in my head. And a sound like a backfire—or a shot—cracked through the trees. I felt grit and gravel biting into the flesh of my face and hands; the snap of ice crackling beneath me. The chill wetness soaked my sweater and jeans and crept through to dampen my skin. I shivered once, from head to toe.

  I realized, belatedly, that I lay on the ground in an awkward sprawl. Face down, one arm caught beneath me and the other behind my back. Free of Rashid, and someone was shouting at me.

  “Kelly!” the voice called. “Get up from there! Run!”

  Elliot Fitch. Elliot Fitch ?

  I rolled sideways, came onto my knees and stayed there, stunned by more than Elliot’s voice. There was a body next to me. Rashid. Blood seeped through his hair to pool in the slushy snow.

  “Kelly!” Elliot shouted again. “Get the hell out of here!”

  I tried. I started to push myself upward, ready to run, but a hand came around my arm and yanked me off-balance.

  “Okay,” Brandon said, “you’re coming with me.”

  John Oliver babbled something from behind us and I realized he was refusing, somewhat incoherently—again—to involve himself. He slammed the lodge door behind him as he dove inside the building. I assumed Brandon would follow, taking me with him, but we didn’t go. He hauled me under the sundeck and pulled me down by a bench I could hardly see in the darkness.

  I caught a glimpse of the man called Frenchie as he ran across the flat toward a stand of trees as more shots were fired. He ran in a zigzag pattern, hunched over, providing a fleet, limited target. I looked back at Rashid’s body and swallowed heavily, hoping I wouldn’t be sick. At least not yet.

  “Elliot Fitch,” I heard Brandon mutter. “Who the hell is he?”

  “A cop?” I wondered aloud.

  “I doubt it,” Brandon said grimly. “More like an agent. Well, here’s hoping he cares enough about you to let me keep you alive.” His hand tightened on my arm. “Be a good hostage, okay?”

  I made a fruitless attempt to twist out of his grasp and succeeded only in hurting my arm. Brandon, unamused, reached out a fist and chopped me along the side of my jaw, slamming my head into the bench. I bit my lip and tasted blood.

  “This is not a game,” Brandon hissed. “This is not a movie. This is real. If you try that again I’ll knock you out and carry you.”

  He moved forward into a crouch, dragging me around to stand in front of him. He twisted both arms behind my back, imprisoning them with one broad hand. “Fitch!” he shouted. “You want her dead? Come for me, then. You want her alive? Back off! Got that?”

  There were no answering shouts from the trees. Brandon was not armed, I knew, but he was very strong. And I did not doubt he would use me to further his escape. Even if it meant killing me. He had already murdered Drew.

  “We’re going now,” he said grimly. “If you fall I’ll drag you. Now move.”

  I moved. We ran awkwardly toward the control room by the chair lift, and no one fired shots. I wondered where Elliot was. I wondered who he was.

  Dark chairs swung in a rectangular turn as they swept around the end of the cable tower and headed back up the mountain. They creaked and trembled as they passed over the cogwheels, empty silhouettes in the moonlit darkness.

  A bent form stumbled around the building as we reached it and crouched down. I fell away from it, felt Brandon’s grasp tighten on me, then recognized the man called Frenchie. He was gasping. He was bleeding. I thought he was probably dying.

  Brandon cursed. “Rashid; now you. They’re good.”

  “Very good,” Frenchie agreed. “I think they have the advantage.”

  “You turned the lift on?”

  “I thought I would take it to the mountaintop,” the Arab said, one hand pressed against his chest. “Now I don’t think I can reach the chairs.”

  Brandon shifted so he knelt next to the wounded man, still holding me by both wrists. “Give me your gun.”

  “I still have need of it.”

  “Give it to me!” Impatient, Brandon swung a fist and knocked the injured man unconscious, dropping him onto his side. He fumbled inside his jacket a moment, then came up with the gun. “Move, Kelly. To the lift.”

  He dragged me to my feet and pushed me toward the moving chairs. Boards thudded beneath my feet as a chair swept by directly in front of me. A bullet pinged off the massive cable support tower no more than five feet away.

  Brandon cursed and shoved me over so that we faced the on-coming chair. I turned automatically; it smacked the backs of my thighs and scooped me up awkwardly.

  I teetered on the edge of the seat, grasping at the center pole of the double chair as Brandon scrambled aboard beside me. He thrust one arm against my chest and pushed, shoving me against the padded back of the chair.

  The chair sagged beneath our weight but kept moving, though I was dragging one of my feet along the wooden ramp. Then the ramp dropped away and the chair swung gently upward, beginning its steady, measured ascent.

  Brandon placed the muzzle of the gun against my left ear. “Go ahead and jump,” he urged. “I think it would probably kill you.”

  I glanced down. Already we had risen sixty feet or so, gaining altitude with every moment. We were too high to risk a leap from the chair. Had there been packed snow beneath us, maybe—but there wasn’t. Just cold, hard ground.

  I swallowed and wet my lips, trying to speak normally. “Brandon—let me go when we reach the top. What harm would it do?”

  “Shut up!” The muzzle was hard and cold against my ear. “I don’t need your chatter.” He peered ahead to make out the dark bulk of the mountain looming over us. The chair rattled and vibrated upward. “We’ll hike down and go into town—rent a car there. I’ll keep you for a while, just to make sure I’ve got insurance.”

  “That’s called kidnapping,” I pointed out. “Why make things worse?”

  He laughed a trifle wildly. “Good God, Kelly, I’ve already killed two men. Do you think a kidnapping charge would make much difference?”

  “Two,” I echoed. “Two men? Brandon—what are you talking about?”

  He looked at me. In the moonlight his face was just a shape, a pale shape with black holes for nose and mouth and eyes. “Tucker,” he said. “Who else?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The night closed in on me. Even the full moon and the stars did not shed enough light. I stared into his dim face. “No.”

  “It was arranged, Kelly.” His voice was quiet, inflexible, perfectly controlled. “Surely you can see that.”

  “No.” It was the only word in my vocabulary. I could think of no other that expressed my feelings.

  “It wasn’t meant for you,” he went on. “I set it up for Tucker, meaning to make certain you stayed behind—but you were adamant. Even when I tried to talk you into staying. Remember?” He looked at me expectantly. “I caught you at the door as you were leaving. I said you should let him go by himself. Remember?” He shook his head. “But you went anyway. It was the one thing I hadn’t planned on.”

  Remember? Of course I remembered. I had spent the past six months remembering the scenes preceding the accident, as well as the accident itself, and its aftermath.

  Tucker, drunk. Strangely angry
-drunk. I had tried to soothe him, telling him not to make a scene. He hadn’t made one, not really, but he had said we were leaving. That was all. We were leaving. I couldn’t disagree; the party was spoiled for me with Tucker in such a state, and I hadn’t wanted to go in the first place. Our evenings together were special. But we had gone, because Brandon was his friend, and Brandon was the host, and Brandon expected him.

  And then Brandon had killed him.

  “I had no choice, Kelly. He knew.”

  The chair swung beneath us. I clung to it with my free hand—he held the other one, and it was numb from the strength of his grip. I stopped shivering because what he had said removed all response from me save numb shock.

  “No choice?” I echoed.

  “He found out,” Brandon said briefly. “He learned about the arrangement I had with Newton, and how the arms sale would go down. I don’t know how—maybe he just stumbled onto it. But he threatened to tell my father if I didn’t call it off.” He looked at me steadily, and his voice took on a funny, impassive, explanatory note. “You weren’t supposed to get into that car. Really. I didn’t want you hurt.”

  “My God, Brandon—” I stared at him. “Do you realize what you’re saying?”

  “Yes,” he agreed grimly. “It was a last resort. I didn’t want to. I warned him it was too rough for him. Damn it, do you think I wanted to set him up? Tucker was my friend!”

  I tried to jerk my arm out of his grasp. I failed, but I didn’t really care. I was too angry to care what he did to me. “You bastard! I hope Elliot Fitch puts a bullet through your brain!”

  “He wouldn’t listen to me,” Brandon declared. “I tried to talk him out of it. I tried to buy him off. I even tried blackmail—I threatened to make sure he never worked for our studio again.” He shook his head. “It didn’t work. He was too damned determined to end the whole thing, no matter what I offered.” His teeth showed briefly. “An idealistic man, our Tucker.”

  “You should have known,” I said blankly. “You couldn’t push Tucker. He always went the other way.”